Crusade
by jackiechica
Summary: A young man does what he has been taught to do, and finds out things he never knew. Years later, his son goes off towards a similar situation, bringing back memories. "Son, know your enemy as I know my son."


"Aye, they're a might heavy, but ye'll get used to your new armaments in no time, lad."

Evan Standholme smiled at his mentor Ronus Lighthammer, even as he fought a growl at his chestpiece, which didn't want to cinch correctly at the sides. "I know, Ronus, its just that I've never worn plate before; mail is so much easier to slip on!"

The more experienced Paladin let out a hearty laugh, and went to help align the sides of the plate chest. "You'll have plenty of practice here in training to get in and out of it...and plenty more in fighting in it! Believe me when I say that loftin' a mace is a might more difficult when your arms weigh as much as it...but it'll make ye all the stronger for the battlefield."

"The battlefield..." Evan's voice trailed off. In his head, he imagined the glorious battles that surely lie ahead of him...the glorious Army of Lordaeron versus the savage Orcs that dared to invade their sacred lands. "How long before we move out to engage the enemy? One week? Two?" he anxiously asked Lighthammer as he slipped the blue and white tabard of the Lordaeron army over his heavy armour.

"Patience, lad, you'll shed your first savage blood in no time...but first you must prepare, and that takes time." Ronus chuckled at his young companion, remembering how his father had also been eager to take the battlefield. The elder Standholme, now long retired, clearly had given his son his fighting spirit.

_Long ago I went to war  
__To fight the scourge of Christiandom__  
I held aloft my blessed sword  
And said "By God, let them come!"_

The mace claimed its mark. The target shattered into a cloud of splinters and sawdust. Evan didn't even bother to reshoulder it; he spun and gave similar treatment to the next target, and the next. He decimated target after target, proving that his training was not in vain. His arm muscles, while never weak, were now taut and bulging, an extension of the massive mace and shield he wielded. His legs that once buckled under the burden of mail, plate, and weapon, now leaped and spun as easily as if he were wearing the cloth robes of a Kirin Tor mage. He showed excellent promise in confronting multiple targets at the same time—the mark of a true Paladin warrior.

"That'll do, Standholme!"

Finally resting the mace in the notch in his spauldors, he strode confidently off the practice field to allow another young Paladin a chance to test his skills against the dummies. Ronus smiled as he walked past, but quickly wiped it off his bearded face to yell corrections to the next soldier, "Not the base, you twit! Breakin' an orc's leg won't do a damn thing! Go for the CHEST! The HEAD!"

"A beast that doesn't give pause to a broken leg? What kind of hellspawn is that?" the other soldier asked, pausing and letting his mace drop to his side.

"That hellspawn is an Orc! Remember, these foul beasts came with the Burning Legion; they aren't like anythin' else you've ever seen. Orcs'll keep coming at you with broken bones, gaping wounds, and arrows piercin' em like pincushions. The only thing that'll stop them is unconsciousness or death! An' THAT'S what you're training to do...kill them!"

_They said their eyes are red as flame  
I heard it said from Hell they came  
Their breath is fire; their tongues are forked  
Thus are the beasts of Dragon's Gate_

A hush fell over the army camp as night fell both sides retreated to rest and tend wounds. Evan sat on his cot, polishing the fresh blood from his mace. It had been several months since he arrived at training, and two weeks since his unit had moved into the field. Since then, they seemed to be drawing closer to the Orc's main base, since attacks from scouts and small bands of Orcs got more frequent each day, and more violent. At first, is was simply a scout or two attempting to ambush the guards. Today, it was three separate attacks from archers and warriors mounted on gigantic Wolf beasts. The Army of Lordaeron was beginning to see casualties, and Evan was beginning to worry.

"Standholme?"

The voice at the opening of the tent startled Evan...he dropped his mace on his (luckily still grieved) foot before picking it up again and preparing to battle. He lowered it again, however, when he realized it was only the camp messenger. "Yes?" he said, trying to casually shoulder the weapon without wincing at the pain in his foot.

"Commander Lighthammer wants to see you in the command tent immediately," said the messenger, who disappeared as quickly as he came. Sparing a moment to let slip a curse or two, he quickly finished cleaning his weapon, donned the rest of his armour, and made his way to the command tent.

When Evan entered, he saw Ronus and several scouts bent over a map of the area, talking in hushed tones and pointing to various areas. He cleared his throat. "You wished to see me, sir?" he asked, trying to maintain as much dignity as possible with a throbbing foot, dented grieves, and familiarity with his commanding officer. Lighthammer looked up from the map, and gestured for the scouts to leave. They did so quickly, glancing back at Evan over there shoulders as they scurried out. "Come in, Standholme," Ronus said, and after everyone was gone, said quietly, "Evan me boy, how're ye holdin' up?"

"Not too bad, sir. A few cuts and scrapes here and there, but so far I've spilled more of their blood than they've mine." Evan noticed the fresh scar crossing Ronus's bicep; a token from one of the ax-wielding riders from the morning. Lighthammer smiled. "Aye, you are your father's boy. I've...I've got an assignment for you, Evan."

Pointing to the map, Ronus pointed to a heavily wooded area a few miles from their current position. "Our scouts indicate that the orcs have cleared this area and made it their base camp...that's where the majority of their forces are waiting." His eyes suddenly grew dark, and his face grew serious. "It's also where the Warchief of this clan resides. If we were to take him out, the orcs would scatter and fall back to other clans, and we can reclaim this area for Lordaeron."

Evan eyed the map. There was no way an army full of plate-clad Paladins could march in any sort of formation in an area like that...forces would be scattered and unorganized. "How do we get there to confront the Warchief?" Evan asked.

"We don't, lad. You do. We can't take an army in there...besides, it would be madness, trying to fight the entire Orc army at once. However, one soldier...one brave, skilled, loyal soldier...could sneak around through this area here," at this, he pointed to a stream bed that ran behind the encampment, "and straight into the Warchief's tent as he sleeps." Ronus moved around the table as Evan studied the map, and put a heavy hand on the young man's shoulder. "You truly have your father's spirit. If anyone can do this and come out alive, it's you. Will you do it for me, lad?"

Evan's heart was filled with dread...he wasn't so sure he'd come back alive. But he nodded and said, "Of course, sir."

"Good lad. You leave tomorrow night. Rest well...you're off guard duty tomorrow."

_I heard my father's words  
Deep in my heart  
"Son, know your enemy  
As I know my son."_

Night fell heavily against a sky filled with storm clouds as Evan set off into the night. He'd spent the better part of the day studying the maps provided by the scouts, brainstorming with them and with Ronus the best way to get into the camp. According to the scouts, the Warchief's tent was in the back of the encampment, and practically backed up to the stream that ran through the woods. Walking on the far side of the bank, Evan slipped as quietly as he could through the night, pushing brush back slowly to make as little noise as possible. His gear was oiled until not a squeak was made, and then enchanted to remove the heavy scent of oil.

As he grew closer to the Orc's camp, he began hearing the sounds of a camp...heavy, guttural language, the crackling of a fire, and the occasional burst of maniacal laughter. The sounds made the hair on the back of Evan's neck stand up...he wanted nothing more but to run in and smash every orc's head to pieces. At the same time, though, as he listened to the sounds dissipate and eventually disappear as the orcs went into their huts for the night, he got the nagging feeling that this all seemed very...familiar. Almost human, in fact. He shook the feeling off as he crossed the river and slipped behind the large tent that held the Warchief.

The fire inside the tent seemed to burn forever as Evan watched and waited...apparently, the Warchief stayed up as late at night as Ronus often did. What was he doing...planning strategy, maybe? Working out plans for troop rations and assignments? Once again, the feeling of familiarity crept up on him, and he almost cursed himself as the light suddenly dimmed in the tent. Waiting a while longer with only the sound of his breath for company, he slipped around towards the front of the tent, stunning the lone guard with a blow to the top of the head, and slipped inside.

Evan crept quietly in, hoping the brief noise the guard had made as he fell had not awakened his foe. He reached into his belt and unsheathed the sword he had been given just for this assignment...maces were too loud and far too unwieldy for such stealthy, delicate work. As he walked through the main room of the tent, he noticed the crude table laid out with what appeared to be a crude map of the area...Evan shook of the familiar feeling once again and made his way into the back chamber.

There, on a cot on the floor, lay the Warchief, asleep. It seemed so simple. Evan took a moment to look at his foe, and felt his stomach clench. The savage orc seemed somewhat less savage in sleep, a look of peace and contentment on his green, bony face. His long, black hair was removed from its braids and ties and lay fanned out underneath him. The orc clutches a hide blanket in his hands, and grunted quietly as he rolled slightly to one side in his sleep.

_ He's not human. When he wakes up, he'll be terrible and savage and deadly again. You need to do this NOW, _ Evan reminded himself, stealing the blade above the orc's chest.

_The fates were kind; they let me in  
The dragon's lair-- the den of sin  
I placed my sword upon its heart  
And with a breath I thrust it in_

With a heavy breath, Evan thrust the sword through thick green flesh and muscle, tearing through until it peirced the ground below the sleeping Warchief. In an instant, the Orc's eyes flew open, a snarling gasp escaping his curled lips as he tried to sit up, only to freeze as his chest hit the hilt of the sword now impaling him. A wet gurgling noise escaped his lips, and for a moment his eyes met Evan's. In that moment, the black pools seemed to both curse and plead with him, before become glassy as the once-proud body slumped back against the ground.

Evan quickly removed the sword, wiping the blood and gore onto the hide blanket that still partially covered the corpse. As he turned to leave, though, a voice behind him made him spin, weapon poised, ready to fight and kill again.

There, in the doorway leading from the current chamber to yet another tent, was a small Orc, no larger than a human child of four years, looking at the corpse. He was calling to it in words that, while foreign, were clearly understood to anyone with a heart. "Father? Father?" The small child looked up at Evan, and said something to him that he didn't understand, then knelt beside the body of his father and shook him.

_The dragon fell upon the ground  
'Twas then I heard a whimpering sound  
A Dragonling to his father clung  
Who only fought to protect his young_

Evan dropped the sword. He felt physically ill. The orc child continued to try and rouse his father as Evan turned and ran out of the tent and across the river. Once across and as far away as his legs would carry him, he fell to his knees and retched into the flowing water. The savage beasts that cared for nothing but death and battle...that image was forever gone. Images of the Warchief's dying emotions and the small child raced through Evan's head...the humanity present in the Orc camp...the child crying for his father to awaken...the deep eyes pleading for life...the innocence in the young orc's eyes as he stared at his father's killer...

"Killer. I'm not a soldier. I'm a murderer." Evan sobbed into the night, tearing his tabard from his chest and allowing it to be carried off by the stream. Steadying himself, he rose and began making the long journey back to the base camp to report to Lighthammer, feeling ill and depressed and remorseful, every step harder than the last. _Would my father, the bravest and most loyal, have done this?_

_I heard my father's words  
Deep in my heart  
"Son, know your enemy  
As I...oh my son."_

25 years later

"Will I ever get used to this blasted plate?"

"Stand still, son, my fingers aren't as nimble as they used to be...and yes, you'll get used to it faster than you think."

Jason Standholme fidgeted impatiently as his father Evan helped him into his new armour. Evan, now an old man, had resigned from the Lordaeron army a short time later, settling in Southshore and protecting his new family through the Second and Third Wars. "So, what is it that this grand army hopes to fight?"

"Father, you know all about the Scarlet Crusade. The Scourge of the Burning Legion must be removed from this land if The Light is ever to return to these lands," Jason recited faithfully as he slipped the red and white Scarlet Tabard over his new plate armour. "Although why they require priests to wear plate is beyond me."

"It'll never catch on," chuckled Evan, watching his son struggle with the added weight of the unusual armour.

_Now my son is off to war  
To fight the new scourge of Christiandom__  
He holds aloft his brazen sword  
And says, "Dad, let them come!"_

"And son, I know what the Scarlet Crusade are doing in the Plagued Lands, but in old Lordaeron? What in Azeroth are they doing there?"

"That's just it, father...there's a new, I don't know, tribe of Undead that's been appearing near Lordaeron and the Sepulcher! It's bound to be the Scourge rising from the ashes." Jason tied his scabbard around his waist, the new blade shining as it shifted in its resting place.

Evan raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound good. They raise much trouble?"

Jason paused uncomfortably. "Well...no, not yet. But they're the Scourge! Maybe it's because there are so few people out there right now, but eventually they'll start working their ways down through Arathi or up to what's left of Silvermoon, and we'll be there to stop them!"

_He swears their eyes are red as flame  
And heard it told from Hell they came  
Their breath is fire; their tongues are forked  
Thus are the men of Muslim faith_

The jingling of saddle bells and the nickering of horses interrupted their conversation as two more of the Scarlet Crusade stopped outside the door and called for Jason. "I must be off now, Father. I promise you, though, we will be victorious!"

Evan sighed. "Son, let this be my advice to you. Don't simply blindly follow faith or commander. Let your heart tell you what's right."

Jason looked confused, but nodded and quickly ran off towards his waiting comrades, saddling up and riding off with them towards the north.

As they rode off, Evan watched the red and white shapes disappear over the hills, and hoped his words would ring in his son's heart as the Orc child's voice still rang in his.

_Son, hear your father clear  
Deep in your heart  
"Son, know your enemy  
As I would have them know my son."_

* * *

_This is my first (and probably only) Warcraft fanfiction. The song is "Crusade" by Voltaire, and is one of the most poignant and beautiful songs he has written. If some of the timeline fluff is inaccurate, I apologize...the only games I've played are WoW and Warcraft III:Reign of Chaos. Other than that, reviews are appreciated, and I hope you enjoyed my story._


End file.
